Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

“What is it, Simm? I’ve just five minutes to look at these.”

  “You haven’t got time to look at any documents,” roared Simm. “You’ve got a load of worry. Syd Day’s van was robbed, and Syd’s got a crack on the head that nearly split it in two. Swine had a master key, got away with—”

  He stopped.

  Carmichael stood up very quickly; then he pushed past Simm, and stepped towards the door. He tied his muffler more tightly about his neck. Several people in the big Sorting Office, working at a lower tempo than at any time during the past week, looked at him.

  He reached the loading platform, but instead of going towards the three vans which had just come in, he turned right towards Goose Lane. He put his bowler firmly on his head, and walked briskly along.

  A Yard man wearing an earpiece cap and blue lumber jacket followed Carmichael out of the Post Office yard into the narrow space of Goose Lane. No one had walked along here for some time. Some sets of footprints showed, covered with the morning’s fresh snow. Against one side the snow was a foot deeper than it was against the other wall, and the little alcoves where a man had lurked, before jumping out to kill Tom Bryant, were so packed with snow that they now offered an even better hiding place.

  Carmichael tried to walk quickly, but it was heavy going. Great clumps of snow gathered on his boots, and the ends of his trousers as well as the end of his long topcoat were rimmed with snow. The policeman hung behind. Near the Embankment end of the alley he stepped into one of the alcoves, and Carmichael looked round.

  He didn’t see the Yard man.

  This man followed until Carmichael was walking along the Embankment. He turned off, quite soon, and headed for Sloane Square, then crossed to the Underground Station. The Yard man got on the same train in the next carriage. Carmichael changed at Charing Cross and took a tube for St John’s Wood. As they came out of the station, the Yard man had no time to nip into a telephone box, but he saw a policeman standing at a corner and surveying the desolate scene. He beckoned, and hurried.

  “Telephone the Yard, tell Chief Inspector West that Sergeant Brown is following Carmichael, looks as if he’s heading for the St John’s Wood house.”

  The constable, who could make it hard or make it easy, looked flustered for a moment. Carmichael was turning a corner.

  Then: “Got it, sir,” the policeman said. “You’re following Carmichael to the St John’s Wood house.”

  “Fine, thanks!” Brown turned and hurried – and slipped on a little mound of packed snow which had been missed by a workman’s shovel. He didn’t fall. When he reached the corner Carmichael was at the far end of this short, wide road. Brown knew where Didi Ames lived; turn right, walk a hundred yards, turn left. He didn’t know of any short cut. He wasn’t likely to be recognised, even if Carmichael turned round, but there were so few people about and the streets and the houses here were so white that he felt conspicuous. He turned the next corner. Carmichael was ploughing steadily on, but Brown had gained thirty yards or more. One more corner, and the house where the blonde lived would be in sight.

  Brown turned it, and saw a red PO van just ahead.

  A man, standing close to the wall, smashed a blow at Brown’s head, and struck him squarely; struck again, and made him crumple up. Brown didn’t even see Carmichael. He was almost unconscious when he was lifted by two men and bundled into the back of the van. The door was slammed, one of the men jumped to the wheel and started off.

  Roger looked at the policeman who had been on duty at the gates of the River Way Post Office as if he couldn’t believe him. The man repeated what he had said, a little hesitantly, but with greater emphasis.

  “I’m sure, sir—Mr Carmichael talked to Driver Simm, and then went towards Goose Lane. Mr Brown followed him. Simm drove off in a hurry. Half an hour ago, I should think, but it may have been a bit longer. As Mr Brown was on the job I didn’t think I need take a note of the time.”

  “Quite right.” Roger nodded and went across the yard; it had been sanded again and there was little risk of slipping. Vans were chock-a-block, and so were the parcels on the loading platforms near the chutes. It looked wrong without Carmichael there to direct operations, but the work was being done. Men were shouting more than usual, and as Roger reached the doorway, he heard someone say: “Six hold ups, isn’t it?”

  “Five or six?”

  “Can’t say I fancy picking up registers today.”

  “You pick ’em up and like it!”

  Roger crossed the sorting office to the staircase and ran up to the canteen, which was on the first floor. The Fingerprints men were standing or sitting about, with little left to do. One man had a long list in front of him, filling three sheets of foolscap.

  “Got ’em all?”

  “All except three, temporaries still out on delivery,” said the man in charge.

  “See that print?”

  “No.” The man was quietly certain.

  Roger didn’t speak.

  There were robberies going on all over London, and somewhere there was bound to be a clearing point. St John’s Wood? Carmichael’s place at Paddington? Or somewhere unsuspected? The first two he could cover, but –

  The telephone bell rang, and a clerk answered, then held the instrument out towards Roger.

  “Scotland Yard for you, sir.”

  “Thanks.” This might be word relayed through Turnbull, Chatworth, anyone.

  “West speaking.”

  “Hi, Handsome!” a man boomed. It was Turnbull. “Picked up a bit of news for you. Description of a pal of Wilson’s could be the one who killed him. PO van driver, name of George, outsize, hard voice, short dark hair, blunt features.”

  “Simm,” said Roger, very softly. “Thanks. Be seeing you.”

  He put a general call out for Simm, whose van registration number was 2oJ41, and then went down to the washrooms near the maintenance department, with an official who had a master key. In Simm’s locker was a case of tools, knives and a saw. And there was a pair of tight fitting leather gloves. The fingers of these were intact, but the right thumb and forefinger were peculiar. At first, it looked as if the leather had been worn away, but that wasn’t so. Something had been sewn on to the surface. It looked like dried skin, with the ridges of a fingerprint.

  It was skin, or something very much like it, and there was a scar in the middle of the thumb. Studying it in the few precious minutes he had to spare, Roger found himself comparing the skin with that of the famous specimen Wilberforce had in Fingerprints; preserved human skin, giving genuine fingerprints.

  Was that it?

  Chatworth said: “All right, we can check that later. Listen. Brown followed Carmichael; it looks like the St John’s Wood place. Silver’s over there already. You go to Carmichael’s home first, then to St John’s Wood. And be quick about it. Twenty one vans robbed so far, only three raiders caught. Thousands of registered letters and parcels, two consignments of diamonds from Hatton Garden, a sack of treasury notes. We mustn’t let them get away with this.”

  “We won’t,” Roger said.

  “We mustn’t,” Chatworth said. “They’ll rub our noses in mud.”

  “I still hope to find the Bryant boys alive,” Roger said acidly. “I’ll report when there’s news, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carmichael’s Home

  Roger could ignore Chatworth’s order and go straight to St John’s Wood; he wanted to, desperately. But if he missed anything at Carmichael’s little house in Paddington, he would be for the high jump. He went out of the office, and saw Turnbull with two Fingerprints men. “Where to?”

  “Paddington,” Roger said, “and we’re in a hurry. You take one man, I’ll take another. I’ll follow you, as you’ve been there.”

  “Right.”

  A detective officer whom Roger didn’t know well slid in beside him, and was so silent at first that he was obviously feeling awkward. Driving wasn’t easy. The DO broke the silence in a voice that was a shade too l
oud.

  “Bad show, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Foul.”

  “Think we’ve got any chance of finding out where they’re taking the stuff?”

  “You can have my head if there isn’t,” Roger said, and then something in the man’s exclamation made him chuckle. “We’ll live it down, in time. Depends what preparations they’ve made. If you were picking up sacks of registered mail from all over London and wanted to hide them, where would you put them?”

  There was a pause. Turnbull’s car skidded slightly and Roger slowed down. They were in Belgrave Square, and there were few people about. Outside two of the office buildings were Royal Mail vans, one a small and red painted one with ER and the Christmas post early posters, the other a big lorry with two youths sitting on a heap of parcels at the back.

  The sergeant exclaimed: “In a Post Office van or one of these lorries!”

  “Steal a van or paint one to look genuine, or get a lorry and plaster it with those labels, and what could be simpler?” asked Roger. “No one would suspect a Post Office van today, would they?” He flicked the radio on and talked to the Yard. “Suggest to the Assistant Commissioner that all PO vans and lorries are halted and searched,” he said, then flicked off and turned into Grosvenor Place. They made good speed through the Park and along the Edgware Road.

  Turnbull gave him ample notice of the left turn. Soon they were in Paddington, driving along streets of little houses made picturesque by the snow. Turnbull waved Roger down, and they drew up in the middle of one of the narrow streets.

  Roger got out.

  Turnbull pointed towards a dark little door, then drove on. Roger gave him three minutes to reach the back of the house, and got out of the car. Two women at windows on the other side of the street watched. He knocked and waited; knocked again.

  A Post Office van turned into the street.

  Roger said: ‘Watch that van, will you?” He was peering at the number, which was partly obscured by slush and snow. Then he shouted: “Look out, it’s Simm’s!”

  There was the number, unmistakably: 20J41. And there was the big, round-faced driver at the wheel. The killer, the man with the phony fingerprints. He had slowed down, but suddenly put on speed. The harsh note of the engine seemed to shout his fears. Roger made a dash for his own car, and the detective shouted:

  “Stop, there! Stop!”

  He drew himself forward, as if he were going to try to stop Simm’s van with his body. Roger had time to roar: “Come back!” and paused by his car, almost paralysed; for the detective slipped as the van came swinging towards him. The detective scrambled towards the pavement, then flopped down. The van flashed past, spattering slush as far as the walls of the little houses. Roger wrenched open the car door and stabbed at the self starter. Before the Post Office van reached the corner he was on the move. He saw the detective still on the ground, and thought he saw a woman coming out of one of the front doorways. He put his foot down. The van swung round the corner, slithering. Roger felt the front wheels skid, but they steadied. He went round the corner ten yards behind, and saw the van slithering towards one side of the road as an electric milk float came slowly towards it, hugging the crown of the road. The float driver looked terrified.

  The van scraped past the milk float, but struck the kerb. It began to heel over, and the noise was frightening. The sight of the van, first on its side, toppling, then upside down with its wheels in the air and still going round, seemed to speak of death. Roger stopped his car, which drew across the road, broadside on. He jumped out, and reached the van as Simm, dazedly, freed himself from the driver’s cabin.

  Though dazed, Simm raised that powerful arm – and the jimmy.

  Roger stopped two yards away, stooped down and grabbed some big lumps of frozen snow. He hurled them at Simm. The first flew over the driver’s head, the second struck him in the mouth, the third his right eye. Then Roger flung himself at Simm, and knocked the jimmy out of his grasp. They went down, rolling over, kicking and struggling. Roger on top, clawing the man’s hands from his throat. Then the Fingerprints man, Turnbull and the milkman came up.

  Carmichael was inside the van; unconscious. So was Sergeant Brown.

  There were no sacks of registered mail.

  Turnbull went to telephone the Yard.

  Roger tried four of the keys on Carmichael’s ring before he found one that turned the lock of the front door. He stepped inside. It was small and dark. He switched on the lights as he went from room to room. In one of the three small bedrooms he found pictures of Didi Ames looking her loveliest, and all signed With Love, Didi. Then he opened the next bedroom.

  Micky Bryant lay there on a single bed.

  The boy was quite still, and his eyes were closed. He didn’t open them, and he looked as pale as death. There was a turban of bandage on his head, an ugly cut in his cheek, and his right arm was bandaged up to the elbow.

  He didn’t move or flicker his eyelids when Roger spoke to him swiftly, urgently.

  The Fingerprints man was just behind him.

  “Get a doctor, locally if you can. If you can’t get one in a hurry, telephone the Yard. Snap into it.” Roger didn’t wait to see the man disappear, but looked down at Micky and felt for the lad’s pulse.

  It was just beating.

  By the time a doctor arrived, with Turnbull on his heels, Roger had made sure that there was no stolen mail at the little house. He had confirmed from a neighbour that Carmichael lived alone here. Carmichael had come home during the early hours; the neighbour had heard his car, the Austin A40, which he garaged nearby.

  The doctor took one look at Micky, and said: “We’ll get him to St Mary’s; it’s the nearest hospital.”

  Roger said: “Stay with him, and if he breathes a word, make sure you get it down.” He left Turnbull and the doctor to arrange for the ambulance, hurried downstairs and into his car. The Fingerprints man and a uniformed policeman were keeping a growing crowd back.

  Roger called the detective.

  “You didn’t get hurt, then?”

  “A bruise or two, sir, but I’m all right now.”

  “When are you going to learn that it’s suicide to run at a moving car?” asked Roger, but he grinned. “Good try, and we’re getting somewhere.” He got in, flicked on the radio, and called the Yard again. There was no response for several seconds, and when it came it was hurriedly: “Information Room.”

  “West here.”

  “Forty three robberies to date,” the radio operator volunteered gustily. “It’s driving us crazy. Caught five thieves in all, opening up the vans with master keys, but they haven’t told us much. Say they were supposed to wait with the bags which would be picked up by a lorry or a PO van.”

  “Anything from St John’s Wood?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any of the stolen bags turned up?”

  “No, sir.” The radio man seemed to fade out, but he was back again in a moment. “The Assistant Commissioner would like a word with you, sir. Will you hold on?”

  Roger said: “Yes.” He held on for what seemed too long a time, and they were soon heading towards St John’s Wood, going fast. They passed four Post Office vans; the red vans seemed everywhere. So did temporary postmen with armbands.

  Chatworth came on. “You there, West?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m told you’ve got Carmichael and Simm, the man of the fingerprint.”

  “Both on a charge, sir.”

  “Been able to make them talk?”

  “Carmichael’s unconscious—drugged, I think—and Simm doesn’t seem like a talker,” Roger said. “I’m on my way to St John’s Wood.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” growled Chatworth. “And listen: among the goods stolen are the diamonds I told you about, as well as consignments of jewels from five West End jewellers to provincial customers, two hundred and fifty gold watches, two bags of used treasury notes and the Lord knows how much more. I’ve only got reports on the con
tents of eleven of the robbed vans.” He was talking so quickly that he almost choked. “If we don’t get this stuff back soon, we probably won’t get it at all.”

  “Well, we’ve got Micky Bryant, alive,” said Roger edgily. “We can chalk that up on the credit side. Will you have someone get the report from St Mary’s Hospital, and then tell Mrs Bryant? Thank you.” He switched off, lit a cigarette, and glared at the road in front of him, with the snow caked and icy in the middle and banked up on either side.

  Then they turned a corner.

  A big covered lorry, plastered with Royal Mail stickers, was roaring towards them; behind it were two police cars. Beyond that, near Didi Ames’s house, men were struggling in the street, and fighting in the garden. The front door of the house stood open, but although Roger saw all this, he did not notice it.

  The lorry was only yards away.

  Didi Ames was sitting by the driver, mouth wide open, eyes rounded with sharp fear.

  If Roger evaded the lorry, the thieves might get away with some of the stuff; if he collided, he would stop the getaway but might not live to learn about his success.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Love Of Carmichael

  Roger could move which way he liked; into or out of trouble. He needed only a split second for decision. He swung the wheel so that he sent his own car right across the front of the lorry. The detective sat rigid. The front wheels skidded, with a strange gentleness, and Roger put on the brakes. He held his breath until the impact came. The front wheel of the lorry struck the wing of his car and swung it round and round like a spinning top, but it didn’t turn over. Out of control, the lorry slithered across the road, crashed into a lamp post, then fell on its side; the wall of a house held it up. The sound of smashing glass, rending metal, shouting people and the whining engines made bedlam.

  Roger felt the car steady.

  He was still at the wheel, and the detective hadn’t moved. He gulped, strained his shoulder back, and then looked at the man.

  “Awake?” he asked.

  “And you told me not to attempt suicide.”